Page 102 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

After our late breakfast, we walk along the beach, pop into shops, and track down consignment stores where we both buy some new clothes.

It’s London in Los Angeles all right, and it’s a perfect day.

As the afternoon ends, we head back toward the promenade when a bus rumbles along, a poster forOur Secret Courtshipwith the new Victor on it.

I flip him the bird.

Jude laughs. “Thank you for the support. That bloke is a total twat. He took my role.”

“It’s a tough business,” I say, hoping Jude doesn’t get annoyed again.

“It is,” he says, his mouth a straight line. “You just never know who has your best interests at heart.”

I drape an arm around his shoulder, wanting to reassure him, even though I don’t entirely know what he’s dealing with. “I think I get it. I want to get it.”

Jude gives me a soft smile. “I knew you’d understand,” he says, and I’m thankful for that.

Very, very thankful.

When I spot a bookstore at the end of the block, that sparks an idea. Something I never did for him in London. Something I can do now.

35

DÉJÀ VU ALL OVER AGAIN

TJ

I’m not jealous of the way Jude stares at the abs on the cover. What I am is eager to get the hell out of this section of Read Between the Lines.

“I have one question for you,” he says, holding up a copy ofThe Size Principle.

“Yes?”

“Did you pick the model for this cover?”

I roll my eyes. “No. The publisher did. And they’re redoing it.”

“Why? Do they hate abs? Men like abs. Women like abs. I’m giving up carbs for abs. How can anyone hate them?”

I shrug. “Illustrated is the thing now.”

“I’m going to be blunt here. Illustrated abs aren’t as sexy as real ones,” he says, then sets down the book.

I seize my chance. “Can we please go to the memoirs?”

“Are you afraid someone is going to see you and ask you to sign a copy?”

That’s not the issue whatsoever. I brought him here for him, not to ogle my covers nor to talk about me. “Yes, Jude. I’m afraid of random bookstore sightings,” I deadpan, then I loop an arm around his waist and tug him away from the romance section toward the back of the store.

“Why don’t you want to see your books? Don’t tell me you’reso over it.”

I turn the question around on him. “Why do youwantto see my books?”

He counters in a flash. “Are you excited to come to my play tonight?”

“Yes. An insane amount,” I say as we reach the tell-alls.

“That’s why I like looking at your books,” he says, and I might float.